


At the Foot of the Chair, Or in It

by BlackEyedGirl



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, Consent Issues, Consequences, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Porn Battle, Possessive Behavior, Post-Series, Power Imbalance, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 13:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackEyedGirl/pseuds/BlackEyedGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm fucked him up in more ways than one. [Written for Porn Battle]</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Foot of the Chair, Or in It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XV for prompt _possess_. 
> 
> Set post-series with the relationship occurring mid-S4.  
> With regards to the consent issues, both parties would consider it consensual both at the time and in hindsight, but the power dynamics of Ollie and Malcolm's relationship could be suspect.

Ollie had thought about hating Malcolm, sometimes, when he had a free moment. The same way he sometimes thought about starting to eat better, or learning a new language. Not something that mattered, really, because it had as much effect on the universe as Ollie’s weak protests at the start of whatever web Malcolm had been about to drag him into, not because he liked Ollie, particularly, but because at some point in the now even more distant past Malcolm gave an order and Ollie obeyed it best.

The thing is, he hadn’t wanted to be Malcolm. Not at the beginning. He wanted to write speeches, and shape policy, and if he didn’t ever quite have Glenn’s ridiculous fucking zeal for standing himself, he still had ambitions. Those had all burnt away in the white heat of Malcolm’s need. Malcolm’s orders and Malcolm’s instructions and, at the very end, Malcolm’s ‘please’. Ollie thinks sometimes that the thing that has crawled inside him and started burning him up from the inside out is not the job, but simply Malcolm, who had picked Ollie out as a convenient body to pour his demons into. When rage tugs at his wrists and climbs into his throat, easier now than it ever was when Malcolm himself was present, Ollie laughs. And they step back, because his laughter is just the tiniest bit frightening. But Ollie laughs, sort of fond, the way you do when you’re not quite a kid and you open a drawer you haven’t looked in since you were, finding something fun you barely remembered until this moment. He laughs and thinks, ‘Malcolm would have eaten you alive’ but doesn’t commit the cannibalism himself. He has his own ways of deploying Malcolm’s best-taught tricks.

But he hadn’t meant to be this. He became it because Malcolm asked him for things and didn’t care enough to stop when the shit-storm started to form around the two of them. Ollie had just enough conscience to know that feeling badly about something should keep him from doing it, although not enough for it to actually work. But he did feel bad, just sometimes. Uneasy. And when he had got like that, Malcolm made things - not calm, but quiet, by being so loud that the other voices didn’t get a word in edgewise.

Malcolm’s surety was pure, Ollie thought, not stupid enough to think that meant good, or nice, or anything other than a force untainted by petty hindrances like doubt. The world had been clearer, on his knees on the carpet of Malcolm’s office, Malcolm assiduously not touching him, not so early in that first time, but talking. He sat, and Ollie knelt, and when Ollie wrapped his mouth around his cock, Malcolm barely reacted at all. Malcolm hummed, not thoughtfully but perhaps in acknowledgment, and everything was in perfect focus. Everything was fine. 

Ollie took a breath and swallowed him deeper, nose brushing wiry curls. He closed his eyes and Malcolm murmured, “If you’re planning on picturing someone else while my cockhead is saying how’d you do to your larynx, I’ll- well, I suppose I’ll have to commend your powers of imagination, little as I have seen those powers applied to the job lately.” He reached for Ollie’s hair and tugged. Ollie opened his eyes. “There now.” Malcolm patted the side of his head. “Good. Isn’t that good?”

He wasn’t sure but ‘yes, Malcolm’ was almost always the best answer, even when it was going to be unintelligible around Malcolm’s cock, so Ollie tried it.

Malcolm’s fingers twisted in his hair again; Ollie hollowed his cheeks and sucked until he wasn’t certain if he was seeing stars from lack of oxygen or because Malcolm’s grip had no inclination to be gentle. He broke off to take a breath, and swallowed again before Malcolm could distract him. He swallowed it all, and there was a metaphor there somewhere, but Oliver’s speeches were all cliché anyway, weren’t they, and Malcolm’s were great but not actually suitable for public consumption. Though they were okay here, muttered invective somewhere above Ollie’s head, where he had leant it against Malcolm’s thigh just for a moment. Just while the world had paused, or was spinning so fast that it feels like stillness, here in the eye of the storm with his lips still slick with Malcolm’s come. 

Malcolm pushed him away and Ollie went easily. “Sorry.”

Malcolm stood up and made a gesture with his hand that Ollie didn’t translate fast enough for his liking. “Twirl around, sweetheart,” he said, “like you’re showing daddy your best new fucking dress.”

“That’s not a turn-on,” Ollie said. “In at least two ways, not a turn-on.” He twirled, still on his knees, but Malcolm stopped him when he got halfway around. 

“You’ve always been a shit liar.” Malcolm’s voice coming from behind him triggered some evolutionary flight instinct that Ollie normally managed to suppress. Malcolm put a hand on his shoulder. “Stay.”

“All right.”

Malcolm moved closer to him, dropping to a crouch, one arm around Ollie’s chest. Ollie could hear him breathing. He flicked at the buttons of Ollie’s trousers, which was disconcerting, because Malcolm was clearly not human but Ollie was still pretty sure he wasn’t getting hard again two minutes after what had been a pretty damn good orgasm even if Ollie was saying it himself. 

Malcolm curled his hand around Ollie’s cock, and stroked. 

“Jesus Christ.”

“That one’s far too easy.”

“Malcolm.”

“Closer with the first one, now would you care to bloody hurry along with this, Ollie, some of us have places to be.”

“Still think Marr’s people are going to shift on the-?”

“Shut the fuck up, please.” His hand twisted, and Ollie backed his shoulder into Malcolm’s chest, gasping. He came all over what was apparently a very conveniently placed newspaper, if the particular target zone wasn’t coincidence. Ollie had grown up by then; he didn’t believe in coincidence around Malcolm. 

Malcolm wiped his hand off and stood up. He jerked his head. “Back to work now, yes?”

“Okay? Yes. Sorry, do you mean me with you? In the meeting?”

“Well, I suppose you do have your uses. If worst comes to worst, we can always deploy that mouth of yours as a distraction, I’ll throw you at the bloody obstructionist-.”

“I’m not a-” he stumbled to his feet, “you can’t actually try to _pass me around_ , Malcolm!”

“Oh, I apologise, was that a speciality reserved just for me?”

“Yes!” He was whining, he knew he was whining, like he knew that Malcolm wasn’t _actually_ planning on whoring him out to the BBC’s strategic wanks, but he was fuck-stupid and hadn’t properly learned yet when to just shut up. 

Malcolm considered him for a long moment. “All right then.” He settled his hand on the back of Ollie’s neck. “Come along, boy o’ mine, you’ve got the length of a taxi journey to think of a better plan.”

Ollie had thought of a slightly better plan, Malcolm appeared to ignore it while stealing the best bit to deploy three weeks later when Ollie had almost forgotten it. When he did remember, not exactly angry (he knew better than that by then) but feeling like he needed to make a show of it, Malcolm smiled. “What’s yours is mine, that’s how this works.” He talked over Ollie’s protest, “And what’s ours is for the Party. That’s how this works.”

Ollie nodded and accepted that, and three months later when Malcolm is caught wordless on television in front of a police station, Ollie doesn’t feel bad about it. The Party is Dan now, and if Ollie hasn’t yet found anyone (got anyone left) he can trust even the small amount Malcolm eventually was stupid enough to trust him, that’s how this works. He doesn’t feel bad for Malcolm, and he doesn’t intervene any further, because Malcolm wouldn’t, and everything important Ollie learned, he learned from Malcolm. 

It is nearly eighteen months later, and Ollie isn’t dead or weeping yet. He thinks about calling Malcolm to gloat about his being wrong about that, but he doesn’t. He had thought about hating Malcolm, sometimes, and had liked him, properly liked him, some of the rest of the time, but none of that actually matters. Ollie lies alone in his bed and there’s something else behind his eyes all the time, something still there when he reaches his hand down his body and knows this won’t make the world quiet. He closes his eyes, but it’s in here with him. And he manages to hate Malcolm, just a little, fruitlessly, for being right, for not being what Ollie had thought he was from the vantage point of his knees in that dim office, and for buggering off and leaving Ollie here alone to deal with that.


End file.
